


Bijou

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 17:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20979320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The dwarves broke Lindir’s dollhouse.





	Bijou

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“They did not even _apologize_,” Lindir adds, his voice hushed, because he’s _trying_ to stop speaking of it; he really is. He already relayed the entire traumatic event in all its terrible detail to his lord: he was working, quite happy and peacefully, in the tranquility of Imladris’ crafting chambers. Then a rock had flown threw the window, scattering shards of glass everywhere and nearly making his heart stop. The rock flew right through the miniature replica of Imladris that he’d been working on for the past several dozen months. It collapsed the entire roof, devastating the bridge and upending several trees. Lindir had held the broken remains of his model in his hands and actually shed a tear.

Then one of the dwarves had stuck their thick head through the broken window, spotted the rock, and laughed at to his companion, _“Ha, you missed me!”_

Lindir still shivers just thinking about it. As they walk, Elrond’s hand lifts to the small of Lindir’s back, gently pressing in, but even that light touch is enough to give Lindir some comfort. He knows his lord is likely sick of his complaints; he’s done nothing but begrudge the dwarves since their arrival. But this time, they really have gone too far. Elrond will have to agree once he sees the damage. Artisans have already been dispatched to repair the window, but Lindir’s model is another story. 

Though it couldn’t possibly be, Elrond murmurs, “I am sorry, Lindir. In the end, it will all be well; I promise you.”

Lindir meekly nods. He believes Elrond, of course, because he always does; he’s never had as much faith in anyone as he does the lord of Imladris. But in the moment, it feels like nothing could fix him. He truly loved his model—it was even to scale, and he’d been working on a tiny harp to place in the courtyard. Now he’ll have to rebuild the entire courtyard, which will no doubt take several weeks that he doesn’t have, now that he’s so busy cleaning up after unruly houseguests. 

When they reach the craft room, Lindir hesitates before entertaining. The scene of the crime still haunts him. With Elrond’s soothing presence, he dares enter. 

Most days, the place is empty—many come and go, but not for long and often far between; there are many places in the sweeping halls of Imladris where one might sit and whittle or sew. Today, there are two elves at the window, one on either side taking measurements and speaking softly to one another. There’s also a short, hairy dwarf in the middle of the room that immediately makes Lindir tense. He can’t believe they came to finish the job and destroy his work completely.

Except it isn’t destroyed anymore—his model looks pristine, as though the accident never happened. The miniature garden has been restored, the bridge rebuilt, each tiny slate of tiling on the pointed roof painstakingly aligned. Lindir stares at the table where it sits, dumbfounded.

The dwarf turns around to look at them. He has a trim mustache, two long braids, and a fur-lined hat with oddly turned-up ends. When he sees them, he smiles wide. Puffing up his chest and dropping his fists to his hips, he chirps, “Sorry ‘bout that, friend, but she’s good as new now! Mind you don’t light the candles ‘til the paint dries: can’t promise it’ll be an even job if you do.”

Lindir can’t answer. He has no words. The dwarf marches towards him and abruptly punches him in the arm. Lindir sways, mortified, even though he knows that in Dwarven culture, it’s meant as a display of affection. Then the dwarf walks right past him and out into the hallway, disappearing. 

Lindir shuffles closer. He bends to get a better look, peering in through the open halls, and sure enough, absolutely infinitesimal candles are resting in tiny sconces. Then his eyes fall to the grand entrance, where a figurine is standing. 

Lindir tentatively picks up the miniscule figure of an elf. The paint job is exquisite; even so intensely scaled down, he can recognize his lord Elrond. Happiness bubbles in his chest simply from holding it. He wouldn’t have thought, would never have dared, to make a figurine of his lord. But he adores it. He looks at the real Elrond, wide-eyed and speechless. 

Elrond wears a kind smile. He says, “I am sorry for the trouble caused to you, Lindir. Yet, perhaps you could abide by our guests a little while longer.”

Lindir nods and murmurs, “Y... yes. Of course, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Elrond’s hand clasps around the place where the dwarf punched Lindir. He lightly squeezes, reassuring and wonderful. Lindir wants to melt. 

With a bow of his head, Elrond takes his leave. Lindir sits and examines the marvelous craftsmanship before him, his opinion of dwarves slowly warming up.


End file.
